Singledom, solitude and the conundrum of growing young

I was greeted by this message when I arrived in Sydney. 

The café is unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. I’m at the Gloria Jeans on Pitt Street near Queen Victoria Building in downtown Sydney, killing my time before a pole dance workshop at Bobbi’s Pole Studio. This café is my favourite chill-out spot not because the coffee and food are particularly good (well, far from that actually as the coffee and food are just average), but because it’s conveniently located, and offers free wireless Internet and a welcoming ambience.

Most patrons and staff here are not locals or Caucasians. There are tourists, international students, working-holiday makers, new immigrants or people of any kind – downtown Sydney has such a vibrant mix of people of different origins and culture. The couple next to me are discussing their itinerary in English with strong European accent; a pair of friends with dark skin is catching up after gym; some patrons are staring out of the big glass windows blankly; a couple of Asians are taking a nap with heads buried in their arms on the table; a creepy old white man, the same one that I saw yesterday, is starring at me from the corner of the café. The red-and-brown colour tone, the aroma of coffee, and the soft music, welcome everyone in.

The streets in this afternoon are quiet too – a change of scene from the one earlier, when you could see groups and groups of teenagers with ripped denim shorts, singlets and sunnies, marching down the streets or hovering in front of McDonald’s, Hungry Jacks or Sunway to grab a bite before they hit the annual Future Music Festival. Today seems like a perfect day for the event with clear sky and a revival of summer heat. I hope the kids enjoy being compressed among stinky, sweaty strangers and suffocated by the smell and heat in the mosh pits.

For the past few days that I’ve been in Sydney, I come to realise that to succeed in, or more precisely, to survive, my imminent flight attendant job, I need to be able to cope with jetlag better. This is the fifth day of my arrival, but I still feel drowsy at 2pm. My drowsiness is partly caused by the medication that the doctor gave me for my upper respiratory tract infection and my cold on the second day of my arrival. How lame. And I haven’t been able to sleep well for quite awhile. How annoying. And I’m going to become a flight attendant for an international airline. Well, good luck with that.

All the sickness, injuries, and weakness that I experienced last year bring me into thinking – Am I really getting old? The muscles stiffness, the hot flushes, the deteriorated cardiovascular activity, sometimes triggered me to ponder if I’m already entering menopause. Obviously I’ve still got some years before that stage of my life, but my body doesn’t function or recover as well as it was when I was 22. However, at the same time, I now feel stronger, sexier and more alive than ever (thanks to pole dancer and yoga). And my mind is definitely younger and more open than before. So is it possible to grow young and old at the same time?

Throughout my life before 30, I longed for relationships and a family of my own. But I was also never sure what I really wanted. Like, you thought you wanted something but as soon as you’re close to getting it, you start to freak out and realise may be you don’t want it after all, or at least, not for now.

But at 31, even though I’m still as naïve and silly as ever (and still haven’t had a clue about what I want), I’m definitely more assured of who I am. After being in so many relationships/semi-relationships, reading so many self-help books, and watching way too many chick-flicks, I’m coming to accept that may be I’m just not meant to be with anyone. Maybe I’m just different.

I love being single and I enjoy being alone; too often before, I started or stayed in a relationship just for the sake of having someone (don’t take it personally boys – it’s not you, it’s me). Of course, it would be nice to have a good companion to share the rest of my life with, but for the past few years, I’ve learnt that I’m perfectly happy (or even happier) by myself. Without attachment, I can go wherever I want, do whatever I love, see whoever I feel like, or, flirt with whoever I fancy (the world is a beautiful place babe, where opportunities abound).

But before you call me bitch or slut or whatever disgusting name tags you can think of, I want to assure you I’m not against relationship – I’m still an ultimate romantic and a sucker for love. What I’m saying is that why be in a suboptimal relationship when I’m having so much fun by myself? I’m still waiting for my charming, straight prince in tailored Armani suit to sweep me up and we live happily ever after at our castle. But in the meantime, this princess just wants to have some fun.

"Can you hear me?"

It has been a busy and eventful week. My grandma was in the hospital for a surgery, so our whole family has been busy getting in and out to take care of her. The surgery was vey successful and she is recovering in an incredible rate. Her pugnacity – no doubt an indicator of vitality and strength – was evident the very next day of the surgery. I pity whoever shared the room with her – victims included at least two fellow patients and a caretaker. And my grandma stayed for only five days at the hospital.

On a Friday that I was visiting her (okay, more like idling unwillingly and reading uninteresting stories of some family brawls over a gambling tycoon’s fortune), my phone rang and I jumped, because A) I was happy for any beep and ring from my Blackberry because I was on the verge of needing medical attention for my boredom, and B) the number resembled those from Cathay Pacific Airways.

I answered at the second beep with a professional and controlled “hello.”

(Below conversation was in Cantonese)

“Can I speak with XXX (my full name)?” the female caller said.

“Yes, speaking.” I answered. Attentive.

“I’m calling from … ssssss…oouu…we’re…hiiishuji,” she said.

Damn.  The lousy reception made the call inaudible. I dashed out of the room, still clutching the phone at my ear with my brows locked. I could smell the importance of this call.

I said something, kept asking her whether she could hear me, but all she said was that she couldn’t. Then. She hung up.

Phone in my hand, I stared at it for a brief second before calling back. She picked up. But again, same thing happened.

Because of my abrupt department earlier, my family bombarded me with concerns and questions when I returned to the room. I told them that I suspected the call was from CX because they should have called by now if they were going to hire me. In the room, I called again, twice, but was only greeted by the voicemail of extension 2830. Okay, fine. They’ll call again, I told myself.

Indeed, they called on Monday – while I was on a bus. She asked whether I was free to talk and I said yes, because luckily, the bus was quite empty. She said it was going to be a long call; I said okay. She said (more like commanded) I needed to write everything down; I said I was all ready.

She spent the next ten minutes detailing when I’m going to start, what I have to do before the training (such as dying my light brown hair black – hell no! Dark brown is the best I can do – but of course I didn’t share this thought), what I have to wear to the training, how long the rumoured harsh training is for, all the documents and materials I have to bring when I sign the contract, etc.

Even though I said I was all ready when she started, all I had were two pieces of scrap paper with my stuff-to-dos scribbled all over the place.  I had to scrawl all those important commands by my caller at wherever I could fit them. And writing on such flimsy paper on your lap while holding a phone in one hand is certainly not easy. Not to mention your neck will complain after three minutes of that.

So I slid down my seat, turned my body to face it, crouched on the floor and kept scribbling away on the seat-now-turned-table.  As I jot more and more notes down, I began to worry I might run out of writing space before she could finish. But to my great relief, the call did end. As I sat back up, I finally had a moment to reflect on what had just happened – I’m so glad I was wearing jeans and the bus was not full, I thought.

And oh yes, I’ve got the job.